


The Rise of Hashirama Senju: A (Somewhat Biased) Tale

by azalera



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Hopeful Ending, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24816019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azalera/pseuds/azalera
Summary: A warmth radiates at the edge of the clearing. It is still and silent and several meters away, yet this warmth burns on Hashirama’s skin hotter than the sun. Hashirama smiles. “Madara?” But when he opens his eyes, the warmth disappears.Hashirama brings it up, once, but Madara dismisses the conversation. They don’t talk about it again for many years.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama & Senju Tobirama, Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Kudos: 63





	The Rise of Hashirama Senju: A (Somewhat Biased) Tale

\--------- 

The first Hokage sits across a tall, dark-haired woman, a kunai at her belt and a feathered pen in her hand. Between them is an endless stack of parchment, some of which has already been covered in ink. His robes drape along the arm of his chair, legs crossed at the knee. He leans forward as he speaks. 

**I.**

His first memory of Uchiha is change. Hashirama clings to a door frame with one hand, his other pressed against the lips of a nameless younger brother. Moonlight peers into the house through sturdy windows and the wind howls louder than Father and Mother. Mother is crying. Hashirama shifts silently to another foot, but his hand shakes, and he grips the wooden frame tighter. The baby hiccups, and he shushes the baby. The wind quiets, and Hashirama catches a glimpse of Father’s glare. He ducks away from the cracked door. 

Hashirama closes his eyes. Tighter. And then he hears the men, grunting and growling. 

“...move camp. They...ambushed. Scum. Feral dogs.” 

Ambushed. Camp. Dead? 

Hashirama breathes through his nostrils, a breath that burns his lungs and his throat and his eyes. The house seems to sway with the wind. He counts each body in the house. Not him, not him, not her. 

“...Hijima was unfit to lead.” 

“The council, of course, has leaned in your favor. The seat is yours.” 

“The only good to come from an Uchiha, I suppose,” Father says, words echoing. 

Hashirama shrinks back to the corner of the room and sits next to the baby. The baby cries. Hashirama holds his arms out in a gesture towards his little brother, welcomes him into his lap, and squeezes tight. 

**II.**

His second memory of Uchiha is hunger. The sun billows high in the sky, and the armor on his shoulder bulges and gaps and is sticky with sweat. His stomach rumbles. He tightens the strap as much as possible, and though it wobbles when he runs and fights, it is already tarnished and weathered. Hashirama carries the weight without complaint. 

Today, the sweat reaches all the way down to his small, hardened hands, and the grip on his sword falters. Father knocks the weapon out of his hand over and over and over and over, until his grip learns not to slacken. His stomach rumbles again. An older man with a gray beard and beady eyes speaks to Father about Uchiha fields. Father nods and sighs. 

“Run two more laps, my son, and then you may join your mother for breakfast.” 

Hashirama runs two more laps, and then joins his mother and brother in the kitchen. The baby survived the winter, but he is tiny, his hair and skin a garish white. That one, which does not yet have a name, sits at the table. Hashirama does not remember what his other brother looked like, but his mother’s belly is round and another will be here by the time the leaves change color. 

He sits beside his younger brother. A cold bowl of porridge waits in front of the younger one, untouched. Hashirama’s is served blisteringly hot. The little boy sticks a finger into the cold porridge and swirls it, eyes scrunched. 

“You have to eat,” Hashirama says, while his mother chops bruised and misshapen vegetables and adds it to a pot of bubbling water. The little boy shakes his head. 

Hashirama puts his spoon down, and while his mother’s back is turned, approaches the soup pot. He grabs a nearby ladle. The vegetables swim fast in the water, but Hashirama scoops out a handful of them. Mother gingerly swats his hand away. 

“Patience, Hashirama. That is dinner." 

“But I need to make him eat.” Hashirama pouts. 

“He must learn to eat what he can, when he can. That’s why you’re strong. That’s what will make him strong, too.” 

“Then what about the people who don’t eat?” Hashirama frowns. 

She pauses. “What about them?” 

“The hungry people killed ‘Jima. Every time we fight, they kill people. They’re strong.” 

Mother ruffles his hair and sighs. “They are not always hungry. Next year, it could be us. Others will fight us to try and take our food away. Thus, we must eat now and grow strong. Do you understand?” 

Hashirama’s nod is delayed, but resolute. He looks at his brother. He returns to the table, and his weapon of choice is now a spoon. He dips into the bowl of porridge and brings a spoonful to his brother’s pursed lips. Their gazes lock. Finally, his little brother opens and swallows. 

**III.**

Countless memories of Uchiha are made in the next two years, and in these memories Hashirama learns how to kill. He kills his first Uchiha by knife. Next it is drowning. Poison. Sword. The methods are infinite. His little brother is strong now, strong enough to be given the name Tobirama. The two boys train together.

“Tobi--” But Hashirama gulps as he’s cut off, and Tobirama kicks at Hashirama from his left, throws a punch at his right. The both of them are silent. A dodge, a punch, another dodge, a fake kick from the left and a real one from the right, and every move Hashirama makes is matched with a counter. But Hashirama hears his brother’s foot as it touches the earth, and his body sways almost as if it were one with nature, gliding this way and that-- 

Hashirama steps in mud and slips. His laugh is instantaneous. 

Tobirama makes a grumpy face and stops. “Hey, you’re not supposed to cheer. You slipping means you’re dead.” 

“Well, I don’t seem very dead.” 

“If Father hears you--” 

“He isn’t here right now. So let’s just...” Hashirama stretches his arms back and forth, back and forth, until a human-like imprint with wings forms in the mud. 

“No, we have to train. We don’t have time for other things.” 

“...Yeah. I’ll only be a minute.” 

Tobirama looks down at Hashirama. His words are stuck in his throat, and in the end, he simply outstretches a hand to help Hashirama onto his feet. 

**IV.**

Memories of Uchiha are a blur of warfare when they stop being memories of Uchiha and morph into memories of Madara. Hashirama’s memory of Madara begins at the forbidden creek. Most days they meet at sundown, or in the brief pauses between the routine of war: And then, while the men and women celebrate or mourn, Hashirama retreats into the forest. 

The trees around the creek are thick and tall. “Sequoia,” Hashirama explains, feet dangling off the hill overlooking the water. “That’s what we call them. They’re sacred, so we never fight here."

Madara makes a look but Hashirama ignores it and the feeling in his gut. Hashirama grins and stands. He’s already running towards the trees when he calls out, “How about a game of tag?” 

Madara follows. 

During the game of tag, Madara's follow is a quick sprint up the hill or across the creek. But when they part ways and return to their camps or their homes, the following is fingers grazing dirt and perked ears. The ground is either loose or wet, and the grass is still, and the sounds of the forest are too loud. The trail ends. They never talk about it. 

Weeks pass before Hashirama returns to their spot. The summer sun burns high in the sky, and Hashirama lays in the green grass with his eyes shut. His dark skin radiates heat. The birds actually chirp, here. The water rushes. The old trees bend and the younger trees groan. Hashirama’s small palm presses into the dirt, fingertips grazing the nearby blades of grass. The grass begins to grow. In the earth, the sequoia roots below knot tighter. 

The trees breathe as one. Hashirama breathes with them. 

A warmth radiates at the edge of the clearing. It is still and silent and several meters away, yet this warmth burns on Hashirama’s skin hotter than the sun. Hashirama smiles. “Madara?” But when he opens his eyes, the warmth disappears. Madara is gone.

Hashirama brings it up, once, but Madara dismisses the conversation. They talk about it many years later, on that same cliff.

**V.**

Memories of hatred begin with his Father. His heart cracks. The hatred targets his brother next. And then it barrels to Madara, and Hashirama wallows in anger at this concept of Uchiha and Senju. There’s something dark there, too, so dark and frightening that the hate switches targets, and Hashirama has no one to blame but himself. 

Tobirama grabs onto the edge of their shared cot and squeezes it as he speaks. “I didn’t want to.” But it’s deep into the night and Hashirama is silent. 

When Tobirama rises in the morning, Hashirama has already abandoned the cot. But Tobirama cannot move. There’s chakra leaking from the earth and the sky, and Tobirama—he’s drowning in it. His head pounds. His heart can barely beat. And at first, he cannot even recognize this chakra as his brother’s. 

Hashirama remembers waking early and training. Tobirama remembers the birth of a beast. 

**VI.**

The well-known parts of war—a hundred men cutting each other down—are where Hashirama and Madara thrive. Hashirama grows tall and sturdy over the years, with fists of rocks and legs of steel. Madara’s quick feet became a dance. These battles, pure chaos for children, became clearer, more concise. And, like magnets, they collide. 

Enemies target Hashirama while at war, but then he strangles whole brigades with tree roots, and instead they try to finish him with a quick knife from the shadows. They always, somehow, miss. Madara is a nobody; He watches and learns and lives, and then, a sudden flick of his wrist, and he dyes the battlefield red. When Uchiha and Senju fight, Hashirama aches for Madara’s weapon and skin and blood. Madara’s eyes flare red, and if words are spoken, they are shouted. 

Most times there are no words, though, just grunts and heaves and growls. Their muscles are hardened and taut by this age, though their bodies are still small. Hashirama is quick with his blade, and Madara is lithe and sly. But sometimes, rarely, there is more. 

“Madara,” he yells as he swings his sword, and the battles around them slow. “I’m not giving up.” 

Madara counters. “It would be easier if you did,” he says, and the strength of his weapon and voice are enough to make the earth quake. 

**VII.**

Most conflicts, however, are small and stealthy. Destroy crop. Block trade. Assassinate. It is easier to forget ideals in these conflicts, because you must. There is no sparing the sleeping child. There is no stopping the looting. Women are stolen, livestock is slaughtered, and the winners destroy camps and claim territory. 

A council member spits names out from a long parchment and Father records the names in groups of nine. A map tacked to the wall has pins congealed in the center and scattered throughout. Hashirama stands in the corner of the room beside Tobirama. More recognizable names are scrawled above each group. He snaps to attention at the sound of his own name, and spots it underneath an aunt’s name: Toka. Tobirama is assigned elsewhere. 

Hashirama’s group is the last to be dismissed. 

At the top of each squadron reads the mission goal. A camp sighting in Senju territory. 

“Our intel suggests the camp is...” He circles a spot on the map. “Here. Toka’s squadron will infiltrate.” 

“The goal?” Toka asks. 

“Take them out.” 

“Who is _them?”_ Hashirama asks, and the question is met with a quick dismissal. Later, while on the hunt, the question nags at him. The forest, now thick with sequoia, hums. The trees bend to his will, creating cover as they hone in on the targeted area. 

He takes a deep breath and clasps his hands together, and the roots underground begin to slacken and grow, ready to explore further ahead, when an invisible smoke chars his nostrils—and that’s when the memory twists, and his knees give out and his bones throb and it’s a memory of being burned alive. Hashirama is red-hot, smoldering, scorching, aching. He is withering branches and blistering bark. Flames lick at the earth and his feet burn. He staggers forward, his connection to the forest ahead snapping. 

A nearby hand steadies him, and Hashirama gasps for fresh air. His body smolders. His bones creak as they move forward, and it is a lifetime until they are close enough to see the fire and feel its heat. Where the camp had been, fire had transformed to burnt earth. 

Spring rain falls overnight, and the sequoia’s ashes turn to mud. A dull ache throbs along Hashirama's spine. 

**VIII.**

Hashirama returns from war late one summer night, a gash along his stomach that refuses to stop bleeding. He smells of iron and dirt and sweat. His eyes burn. His right leg refuses to hold any weight. His thoughts are cloudy, and he steps into his home with dreary thoughts of sleep, but the smell of blood reeks—he must rinse off before he collapses—and then a quiet sob echoes in the house and his mind quiets and his leg behaves and the blood isn’t just on him, it’s on the walls, it’s stuck in the floorboards. 

It in the bedroom where he finds her, limp and stinking on a futon. 

Tobirama sits beside the futon, silent. Hashirama falls beside him. Time passes. 

“Dump the bodies” 

Hashirama’s fists flies through the air and smacks his father’s jaw, and Tobirama grabs at his brother’s shoulder desperately. Hashirama’s chakra settles into a rain, but the hurricane still hangs in the air. 

“This is the way things are, Hashirama. If we are weak, we die. Your mother was weak. It’s better you accept this now.” 

His heart throbs and he shakes his head, and his chakra is a slow, slow drizzle as he walks away. His feet carry him until the rush of running water floods his ears, and he looks up. The cliff by the forbidden creek stands in the distance. 

“I’m tired of this senseless war,” he says, and then laughter suddenly bubbles from deep in his throat, and he presses his sweaty palm to his forehead. “Great. I’m talking to myself now. I can hear you making fun of me. I suppose you might make fun of me for even coming back here.” 

He hikes up the hill, sits at the edge, and stares at the midnight sky freckled with stars. 

“We’re going to build a home here. I know it. I'm going to find a way forward for us. We still have people to protect.” 

**IX.**

“Brother-- Wait!” 

Hashirama gathers the messy papers in front of him and runs to the opposite side of the room. He collects another stack of papers. He walks past Tobirama. 

“What do you mean, you’re going talk sense into the council? You have zero authority--” 

He turns to face Tobirama, finally, and does so with a smile and glowing eyes. “Well, I’m going to do it anyway.” 

“...And what exactly are those papers for?” 

“Why not come along and find out?” 

“Because, brother, the council has not asked for me, Father has not--” 

“Father is interested in war. He will never ask for peace. I will.” 

“This is ridiculous, at least follow procedure and request for the council’s audience.” 

Hashirama grins. “Oh, I already did. They said no.” 

“Hashirama--!” 

A few papers slip out of the stack and Hashirama hurries off. Tobirama, left with the moral choice of abandoning his brother or chasing after him, decides to grab the papers and follow. 

The five councilmembers are saying farewell when Hashirama strides inside their meeting room. Tobirama waits outside the door. 

“Hashirama,” the oldest councilmember, a man with dark hair and thin wrinkles, murmurs. “I don’t believe we have any business with you.” 

“You’re wrong.” 

The man raises an eyebrow, and some of the other members quiet. 

“Are you questioning my authority?” 

“I am questioning a world in which we are stagnant. Our goals are always too small. We steal farmland, and in a year the earth is tired and food refuses to grow. We take money, and mercenaries and thieves take back twice as much. We kill our enemies and they kill us. I have larger goals. I’ve written them down here, and I ask that you consider reading them. If you doubt some of them are possible, I swear on my life I will prove to you they are.” 

Hashirama holds the stack of papers out to the man. The man pushes them aside and stomps away. 

He is quick to spin around and trail behind, but a woman reaches for the papers instead. 

“Wait. I cannot promise anything, but I will take a look at what you’ve written.“ 

She leaves, and Hashirama breathes a sign of relief. Beyond the door, Tobirama stops the councilwoman and hands her the last few pages he had rescued from the floor. 

“Do you believe in him?” she asks. 

“He is reckless and idealistic,” Tobirama admits. ”But I do.” 

\--------- 

“Ah...You’re almost to the best part,” Hashirama says, peering over Madara’s shoulder at the bound copy of parchment in his gloved hands. 

“Hmph. I fail to see any use in reading the rest of this damn thing. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, _Senju,_ but I already know the story. Not to mention this is—“ he turns away, sticks his nose up. “Totally inaccurate.” 

“Ha! Give me the one you’ve had commissioned, and I’ll be happy to compare our notes.” 

“...That dim-witted slug did an even worse job writing mine. Are these really necessary?” 

“We’ve already discussed this, Madara! To maintain peace, future generations have to know how we created it. Besides...” The energy around Hashirama blackens and sinks to the floor. “What if they forget about me?” 

“Impossible.” 

Hashirama smiles. “Read the end, at least?” 

**XVII.**

Hashirama’s hands ache. Dozens of letters are stacked in front of him, and his council reads through them several times over. “Too big of an offer,” one corrects, and they rewrite a portion of the letter. “They won't join the village under these terms,” another says, scribbling away. 

“This is why you’re not supposed to write these yourself,” a woman says, shaking her head. 

“They trust me. I have to do it. Besides, the more eyes on these, the better.” 

There is one letter, however, that Hashirama seals himself, addressed to the leader of the Uchiha clan. 

“And that one?” she asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Personal.” 

Some of the clans, such as the Naru, are quick to say yes to joining a village after years of white peace with the Senju. The others bend slowly, over several more letters and a few round-table negotiations. With the leaders of the Senju and Uchiha—the largest clans at the time—joining together, peace becomes possible. 

Some nights, even years after the foundation of Konoha, civilians and shinobi alike can catch Hashirama sitting beside Madara on the cliff overlooking the village. They discuss life and family and childhood memories, and sometimes they discuss how to keep the peace. 

Whatever the conversations, there’s a rule all those under supervision of the Hokage know: Never interrupt the two if you see them up there, not unless you’re willing to be promptly kicked off the edge of the cliff. 


End file.
